While growing up, there was this shop down the lane. A small pretty shop scattered with the usual grocery items. It stood there, amidst the row of other shops. There was nothing exclusively striking about it. But come what may, every Sunday morning the owner used to wash the windows. That was when we all kids of the block used to loiter around. He was a quiet guy, never yelled and always had a ready stock of candy for us. Recently when I went back home, I heard that he was having Parkinson’s’ disease. The store had passed down the family line to Sam. Jokingly, I asked Mr. Peter if the Sunday morning ritual still stands….
Pat came the reply with twinkling eyes, ” Oh yes dear, imagine if Sam doesn’t do it anymore, who will even bother giving it a peek ?
Besides, if your own window panes are smudgy with dust and dirt, how can you look at other’s with a clear view…” Meta-philosophical reply. Ironically, what brought me to this remember this little incident is that, the amount of finger-pointing talk that I hear around. It’s so easy to point your finger and waggle your tongues, criticizing somebody but how many times do we stop to think about what we do. Looking within, I do have a lot of cobwebs and dusty corners. It’s not so easy to sort them out, but then if it all clutters up, it will affect my thinking and moods of the future, maybe not conciously but sub-consciously.
After-all, it’s easy to point a finger at someone, but what about those three fingers of yours pointing back at you ? True, Mr. Peters looking through faded window panes, alters the actual view. So it’s time for me to clean ’em before it becomes totally opaque with all the dust and the grime.